Shen Qingwu always seemed determined to force her way into Zhang Xingjian’s world.

Like an icy blade, shattering gold, breaking jade.

She wanted to carve a bottomless void into his heart, to overturn all his composure, his clarity, his calm. This void needed to grow, day after day, year after year, the cracks widening… until, someday, she would utterly destroy him, dismantle him completely.

On the last day of winter, Tianlong 23, through that long night of wind and snow in the Wulong mountain range, as Zhang Xingjian knelt motionless on the ground, letting Shen Qingwu collapse against him, he’d already come to recognize the effect she had on him.

The cold night, snow falling, heaven and earth bitterly frozen.

Zhang Xingjian knelt silently. The blood on the woman leaning against him had long since dried, her breath against his neck faint and thin, even the arm draped over his shoulder weaker than he’d ever felt it.

Snow settled on Zhang Xingjian’s lashes.

He remained still for a long while, more like a carved ice statue than she was.

After a long while, as Shen Qingwu’s breathing grew weaker still, Zhang Xingjian finally reached out slowly, carefully avoiding the sword in her abdomen, and gathered her into his arms.

He should have been searching with Chang Lin and the others. He shouldn’t have been the one to save her alone.

Zhang Xingjian thought this through calmly, then spoke softly: “General Shen.”

Shen Qingwu, already unconscious, of course couldn’t answer.

He gazed with utter coldness at this landscape littered with bones, murmuring to himself: “You’re the one who saved my life, and you’re a living person too. I should help you.”

He lowered his eyes to the half of her face frozen over with frost. He thought the frostbite would surely cause her a great deal of suffering; but at least she’d survived.

Zhang Xingjian exhaled softly.

He said, “I need to draw out this sword and bandage your wound, so I can carry you out of here and back to camp. I don’t mean to be improper with you, General—circumstances leave me no choice. Please forgive me.”

Having finished saying what needed to be said, he surveyed his surroundings. Somewhat awkwardly, he lifted her into his arms, searching for shelter from the wind.

The conditions here were too poor; he could only use snow to clean her wound. Once he’d drawn out the sword, she had no clean clothing left for bandages, so he tore strips from his own undergarment sash to treat her wound.

Finally, he glanced quickly at the woman he’d just undressed, still utterly unaware, harmless as ever.

He couldn’t help but smile faintly.

Had Shen Qingwu been conscious, had he dared treat her this way, she’d surely have struck him down already. That woman had always been the type who could offend others freely, but would never allow anyone to touch her.

Snowflakes gathered on Zhang Xingjian’s long lashes, making his face look even paler.

He removed his outer robe and draped it over her, sighing: “I hope we both make it through this safely.”

Shen Qingwu felt entirely comfortable, as though soaking in a warm spring.

Warm, soft. The blood seemed to have been cleaned away somewhat. The bitter cold had numbed her so thoroughly that she sometimes couldn’t feel the pain of her wound at all, only a vague sense that she’d somehow come back to life.

She opened her eyes in a daze.

She couldn’t tell reality from dream, because this scene was one she’d never have dreamed even in her wildest imaginings—

Snow falling thick, mountain mist like frost, a deep night of perfect stillness, she was being carried on someone’s back, moving slowly through the deep mountains. Looking up, there was no moon, only endless snow and mist.

She gazed, dazed, at the person carrying her:

Skin white as snow, a fine, delicate profile, a high, straight nose, lips curved slightly upward, in that perfectly composed, habitual half-smile.

Such long lashes, such dark eyes… exactly like the handsome young men painted in storybooks.

Carrying her weight made his breathing labored. In the snowy night, her own breath against his neck was barely perceptible, while his breath billowed white, drifting upward into the air, floating away.

Shen Qingwu caught the scent of blood, of decaying flesh, though she couldn’t tell where it came from.

It was, truly, the most beautiful scene in the world—peaceful, serene.

She reached out with great effort, gently poking the lashes of the man carrying her.

His lashes didn’t move at all.

Shen Qingwu wasn’t sure whether she felt disappointment or relief: of course—this was a dream, and everyone in dreams was fake. She must really be dying, if even dreaming of Zhang Xingjian, she found herself, of all things, being carried by him instead of wanting to cut him down.

But why did he look, somehow, like a moon carved of ice, cold air radiating from his entire being.

Shen Qingwu, hazily: “Zhang Xingjian.”

Zhang Xingjian didn’t answer.

Shen Qingwu asked, “Are you tired?”

She muttered to herself, “I’m quite tired. Why would I still feel tired, even after I’ve died?”

Zhang Xingjian, sensing her mind was clouded, drifting through some kind of dream-state, considered how best to make her aware of the actual situation, when he heard Shen Qingwu ask, quite seriously: “Did I die at your hands?”

Zhang Xingjian let out a soft laugh.

His voice was clear as moonlight: “Shen Qingwu, these past few years—have you been happy?”

Zhang Xingjian, asking whether she’d been happy…

Shen Qingwu felt even more certain this was her own dream.

After that, she said nothing more, only lay quietly against his shoulder, sometimes opening her eyes, sometimes drifting into unconsciousness. When unconscious, she dreamed all manner of chaotic things; when semi-aware, she saw mountain grass waist-high, him carrying her, walking on and on.

Why was the road to the underworld so long?

The world vast and boundless, life and death a matter of fate. Death, it turned out, wasn’t frightening at all—it felt like some peaceful, sacred occasion.

She was undeniably weak, yet her heart felt strangely calm, and she found herself thinking this moment was beautiful, that she had no regrets in this life.

The sky ablaze, the world so vast and open.

Zhang Xingjian carried Shen Qingwu on his back, following the rope markers back the way they’d come.

He’d draped his outer robe over her, enduring the cold himself the entire way. He didn’t speak to the badly wounded woman on his back, didn’t try to call her back to consciousness—afraid that if he let his own strength falter even slightly, the two of them might collapse together in these mountains, never to walk out again.

The wind and snow numbed his mind, left his hands and feet without feeling. He simply couldn’t afford to stop.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Zhang Xingjian heard voices calling, growing clearer: “My lord, my lord—”

He looked up and saw a few points of firelight ahead, soldiers who’d come searching the mountains, supporting wounded comrades, waving to him. Chang Lin shouted loudly for him, and when he didn’t respond, simply broke into a run, rushing forward to take the person from his back.

Chang Lin, astonished: “You found Shen Qingwu? Is she…”

A young man’s voice rang out, startled and overjoyed: “Shen Qingwu’s alive?!”

The man, stumbling forward, collided into Zhang Xingjian, snatching Shen Qingwu right off his back. Zhang Xingjian staggered backward from the impact, coughing, his face pale as frost. Chang Lin shouted in fury: “How dare you!”

Only then did the man register what he’d done, flustered and startled: “Zhang—Zhang—Zhang…”

Zhang Xingjian, coughing, smiled at him.

He recognized this young man, rushing so anxiously to Shen Qingwu’s side, as Yang Su, the one who’d once accompanied her to Dongjing.

Zhang Xingjian thought, distantly: this young man from the prestigious Yang clan of Hongnong seemed to be on rather good terms with Shen Qingwu.

Yang Su, it turned out, had been rescued by Chang Lin and two other officers. Not long after regaining consciousness, Yang Su had wept, choking out how he’d gotten separated from Shen Qingwu, how she’d drawn the enemy away to save him, how he felt he’d failed her…

Yang Su had refused to leave the mountains with them, insisting on seeing Shen Qingwu with his own eyes.

Just as they were arguing over this, far off on the rugged mountain path, Zhang Xingjian appeared, Shen Qingwu on his back.

Everyone was overcome with mixed emotion: so many had died, yet both commanding officers had survived—truly a stroke of fortune.

Yang Su checked Shen Qingwu, and though gravely wounded, she was, at least, not dead. Relief washed over him, and only then did he remember his own poor conduct, allowing himself to be helped up to apologize to Zhang Xingjian.

Zhang Xingjian smiled faintly: “If you’d like to make it up to me, do one thing as I instruct, and I’ll consider the matter settled.”

The other soldiers watched Zhang Xingjian with quiet indignation: General Yang was already so badly wounded, and this Zhang Sanlang still had demands to make!

Yang Su bowed with cupped hands: “Please, my lord, speak.”

Zhang Xingjian said, unhurried: “Once we’re back, when General Shen wakes, tell her it was you who saved her. I hope everyone here will cooperate.”

Everyone froze.

Chang Lin looked at Zhang Xingjian with complicated eyes.

Zhang Xingjian coughed twice, gesturing for Yang Su to return the outer robe he’d draped over Shen Qingwu: “That’s my only request. I’m merely a scholar—I won’t stand here in the cold with you military men any longer.”

Only then did everyone understand, hurrying to organize the retreat.

Back at camp, finding Bo Rong still unconscious, Zhang Xingjian visited the commanding general briefly, then went to check on Shen Qingwu and Yang Su.

Everyone urged him warmly into their tent, remarking on how thoughtful and considerate this court official was, how attentive to the soldiers—entirely unlike the other officials from Dongjing.

Yang Su should have gone to his own tent to rest and recover, but he insisted on staying, wanting to wait until the old army physician had examined Shen Qingwu, unwilling to leave with peace of mind until he knew she was out of danger.

Zhang Xingjian sat by the stove, already changed into clean, fresh clothes, sipping a bowl of hot tea.

In the tent were only the still-unconscious Shen Qingwu, the physician, Yang Su, and, for reasons unclear, Zhang Xingjian, who’d stayed behind as well.

The old physician stroked his beard, checking Shen Qingwu’s pulse again and again, hesitating, glancing back at the two men, seemingly wanting to say something yet holding back.

The old physician said slowly, “General Shen has a strong constitution, sturdy as an ox. With a few months of proper rest, she’ll certainly be fit for battle again…”

Yang Su blurted out: “Then why are you hesitating? Will there be some lasting effect?”

Yang Su, his imagination running wild, frightened himself pale: “Memory loss? Or will she become slow-witted? I’ve heard of people who wake from serious injuries complaining of headaches, and one day, just suddenly die…”

Firelight flickered in the young man’s dark eyes. Zhang Xingjian, brow furrowed, slowly blew on his tea, perfectly still.

The old physician hemmed and hawed: “This… it’s not exactly serious, but it’s not exactly not serious either. General Shen is, after all, a woman, and, well…”

He grumbled: “General Bo never should have kept her in the army in the first place. A woman who won’t properly serve her husband and raise children, running around shouting for battle all day—what kind of behavior is that? I would never let my own daughter go to war…”

Yang Su glanced lightly at Zhang Xingjian.

Zhang Xingjian, elegant as a jade figure, showed no reaction whatsoever to the old physician’s grumbling.

Yang Su asked, “So what exactly is wrong with her?”

The old physician: “The sword wound to General Shen’s lower abdomen—you two treated it, didn’t you? The rescue came too late, and the wound damaged a woman’s… foundation. General Shen will likely never be able to bear children, for the rest of her life.”

A young woman in the bloom of her youth, perhaps never to become a mother.

Yang Su froze.

Zhang Xingjian’s lashes trembled faintly, his hand holding the teacup going still for a long moment.

A moment later, he turned to Yang Su with a faint smile: “This is General Shen’s private matter. Let’s both pretend we never heard it.”

Yang Su lowered his head.

After a long moment, Yang Su said, “Shen Qingwu only ended up like this because she saved me. If she truly can’t bear children anymore, I’ll marry her myself.”

Zhang Xingjian: “…”

His expression turned strange for a moment as he studied Yang Su for a long while.

Yang Su turned to ask him, “How exactly did you… ahem… win our General Shen’s heart back then?”

Zhang Xingjian said, courteously: “General Yang, are your injuries perhaps affecting your mind? Doctor, perhaps you should examine General Yang again.”

Yang Su was immediately seized by the old physician for another pulse check, while Zhang Xingjian set down his teacup and slipped out through the felt curtain.

It was three days before Shen Qingwu regained full consciousness.

The good news was, upon waking, she learned that Bo Rong had woken the very same day.

From the officers who came to check on her, she learned Zhang Xingjian was still there. These past few days, with the commanding general unconscious and the other officers busy with rescue efforts, Zhang Xingjian had been managing the army’s administrative affairs.

Shen Qingwu sat wrapped in a robe in her tent, listening expressionlessly to their chatter.

No one could read her reaction, exchanging glances among themselves. They felt grateful to her, yet awkward at her silence.

The old physician’s arrival spared them.

Everyone laughed it off: “General Bo’s awake, you’re awake too—wonderful news. We’ll hold a celebration tonight… though since you’ve just woken, you needn’t attend, just a token gesture will do.”

They excused themselves one by one, leaving the old physician alone with Shen Qingwu, who, after checking her pulse, hesitantly began explaining the concern about her difficulty bearing children.

Shen Qingwu’s mind went momentarily blank.

Perhaps she felt some sadness.

After all, she was a woman too.

But… surviving at all was already fortunate enough. Life had never favored her much to begin with—she’d long since grown used to that.

Seeing her muted reaction, the old physician sighed. This female general’s strange temperament was nothing new to him. He went out to prepare her medicine, thinking to himself how heartbroken he’d be if his own daughter had suffered what Shen Qingwu had.

Sitting alone in her tent, Shen Qingwu propped her hazy head in her hands.

Having just woken, she was still terribly weak, her whole body drained of strength. But closing her eyes, she found fragments of memory surfacing.

She’d thought it had all been a dream.

Zhang Xingjian carrying her, step by step through the snow—how dreamlike, how impossibly false it seemed. Only a fool given to dreaming would believe such a thing.

But… they were saying Zhang Xingjian was here in the camp right now.

Leaning against the tent wall, Shen Qingwu’s mind filled with that thick, drifting snow fog, the young man’s uneven breathing, the scent of him, the smell of snow mixed with blood…

In that frozen white world, she’d reached out to poke his face, his lashes.

After a long while, Shen Qingwu opened her eyes.

Slowly, she loosened her robe, pulled back her collar, and examined the bandaging on her wounds. Without telling anyone, bracing herself against the table and the bed frame, she struggled to walk, slow and laborious, around her tent.

Her clothing disheveled, her eyes sharp as lightning, she scanned her small domain.

She caught a faint whiff of iron.

Hand pressed to her abdomen, she crouched down, slowly searching beneath her bed, and found a long strip of cloth. The cloth was stained with blood, its smell already growing foul after several days—but given the state of the camp, with people constantly coming and going, no one had noticed the cloth kicked beneath the bed frame.

The cloth was woven silk, embroidered with a pattern of clouds and vines. Without the blood, it would have been… a man’s waist sash.

In the cold night, Yang Su returned to camp, picked up a bowl of scalding, bitter medicine, and drank it down in one go.

The lamp flared to life; he startled instantly, drawing a blade and thrusting it forward: “Who’s there?!”

His bluffing blade caught the pale, moonlit face of the person before him, loose black hair falling, cold, still eyes… Yang Su forced himself to stop mid-motion, the blade halting just before Shen Qingwu’s throat.

Both startled and furious, he demanded: “What’s wrong with you?! Barging into my tent like this, and not making a sound?”

Shen Qingwu sat against the wall, sword-straight and cross-legged, her voice very faint: “No strength to speak.”

Yang Su: “…”

He said, “Then breathe a little heavier, at least, so I can hear you coming.”

Shen Qingwu’s voice remained just as faint: “No strength for that either.”

Yang Su: “…”

He studied her with suspicion and alarm—this was a Shen Qingwu he’d never seen before.

Her face was deathly pale, her cheeks hollowed with no flesh left, her cheekbones sharp and pronounced, her lips a bloodless blue-white, making her eyes appear almost frighteningly large.

Her long hair wasn’t tied up as usual, but half-loose over her shoulders, held only carelessly with a wooden hairpin.

Too badly wounded to wear armor, she was draped in an exceedingly loose, snow-white robe, the sleeves revealing fingers pale and slender as jade.

Her features were elegant, her frailty pronounced—and that very frailty lent her an indescribable, pitiable beauty.

Looking her over, Yang Su suddenly understood why she and Shen Qingye were cousins—it turned out Shen Qingwu, when weakened by illness, possessed that same delicate, affecting beauty too.

Shen Qingwu said, coldly: “What are you staring at?”

The moment she spoke, that fragile beauty vanished entirely.

Yang Su sighed, sitting down: “I heard you woke today—I meant to come see you myself. But I just got back from visiting General Bo… you’ve barely woken, why aren’t you resting properly instead of coming here? Whatever it is, couldn’t it wait until you’re fully recovered?”

Shen Qingwu said, coldly: “My matter is important.”

Yang Su: “…”

He bowed his head for a moment, then looked up as though he’d made up his mind: “Shen Qingwu, why don’t you marry me?”

Shen Qingwu didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow: “You’re dreaming.”

Yang Su: “…I mean it sincerely…”

Before he could finish, Shen Qingwu cut him off: “Who pulled me out of the mountains?”

Yang Su froze, remembering Zhang Xingjian’s earlier request.

He said, grinning: “Me, of course. We’ve faced life and death together—who else would save you if not me?”

Shen Qingwu, indifferent: “How exactly did you save me? Weren’t you wounded too?”

Yang Su, repeating the words Zhang Xingjian had once taught him, found himself thinking, strangely, how well Zhang Sanlang seemed to understand Shen Qingwu… but had Zhang Sanlang ever imagined she’d drag herself here, barely conscious, to interrogate him about it the moment she woke?

Yang Su said, “I searched everywhere with a walking stick, and finally found you. You were unconscious in my arms, muttering about wanting to kill me. I knew you were joking, of course—you probably thought I was the enemy.

“I gave you basic treatment, and carried you the whole way…”

Shen Qingwu asked, “You carried me?”

Yang Su: “Who else could it have been?”

She stood abruptly, and though clearly still weak, swaying as she walked, she advanced on him step by step. Yang Su, pressed back by her intensity, couldn’t help retreating: “What are you doing?”

Shen Qingwu: “How exactly did you carry me? Show me right now.”

Yang Su: “What’s wrong with you?!”

Shen Qingwu backed him into the corner by the tent entrance, one hand braced against the felt curtain with visible effort, watching him stumble and sit down on the ground. She said, “Which hand touched me, which hand undid the sash, how exactly did you…”

Yang Su, flushing red, said sharply: “What do you take me for, some kind of shameless scoundrel?”

Shen Qingwu’s voice grew even sharper: “If you didn’t touch me, how did you bandage the wound?!”

She said, “Bandage me again. Now.”

Sweat beaded on Yang Su’s forehead.

Shen Qingwu drew out a long waist sash from within her robe, blood-stained, holding it up before him: “Yours?”

Yang Su, forcing himself: “Yes.”

Shen Qingwu opened her mouth to respond, but a cold gust blew in from outside, and she broke into a fit of coughing, her shoulders trembling, her face white as a ghost.

Yang Su said, “Go rest and recover, madwoman, don’t scare me half to death, all right?”

Her coughing eased somewhat, a flush of red blooming across her face from the effort, her eyes dark and glistening as though soaked in water, sharp and cold.

Shen Qingwu said, “This sash isn’t woven from Shu brocade. You’ve been stationed in Yizhou the whole time—when did you ever leave to acquire a sash not made from Shu brocade?”

Yang Su let out a startled laugh.

Cornered by her, he looked up at her fury, gritting his teeth: “I do come from a prominent family, you know. I can certainly afford a waist sash.”

Shen Qingwu: “What’s embroidered on it? A phoenix tree, or a phoenix?”

Yang Su hesitated—Zhang Xingjian’s sash couldn’t possibly bear any symbol connected to Shen Qingwu.

He said, “A phoenix.”

Shen Qingwu looked at him and laughed coldly.

Yang Su finally closed his eyes, sweating profusely, on the verge of being driven mad by her.

He surrendered: “Fine, I give up… it wasn’t me who saved you. My injuries were only slightly lighter than yours—there’s no way I could have saved you. Someone told me to say it was me…”

Shen Qingwu snatched the sash and stormed out.

Yang Su froze for a moment, then jumped up to chase after her, furious: “Shen Qingwu!”

The snow had melted, the cold night moon emerging, bright and clear.

The camp was strung with festive lanterns, holding a long-delayed evening banquet to celebrate several officers’ safe recovery. They’d weathered the disaster, defeated the Western Di—the court was bound to reward them.

Zhang Xingjian didn’t attend the banquet.

Chang Lin accompanied him, the two of them standing outside the commanding general’s tent, waiting to be received by Bo Rong.

A voice came chasing from behind: “Shen Qingwu, Shen Qingwu, stop right there!”

Zhang Xingjian heard the chaotic footsteps approaching.

He paused for a long moment, then slowly turned, seeing the cold night wind, a white robe billowing, Shen Qingwu striding rapidly toward him, her dark eyes fixed unwaveringly on him.

Chang Lin quietly stepped back.

Chang Lin murmured into Zhang Xingjian’s ear: “What did you do to provoke her this time? Why does she always look like she wants to eat you alive whenever she sees you?”

Zhang Xingjian said nothing.

Behind him, lantern light flickered in the distance. He stood in a pale blue round-collared scholar’s robe, positioned upwind, his robes billowing, his elegant bearing like some celestial figure beneath the moon. He was the kind of devastating beauty that made even the fiercely advancing Shen Qingwu, and Yang Su chasing after her, pause in startled admiration.

Shen Qingwu stopped five paces from Zhang Xingjian. He stood immaculate and refined; she looked as though she’d crawled from a mire. She saw the vast difference between them, and didn’t care in the slightest.

The cold wind tousled her hair, dark strands tucked messily into her collar, Shen Qingwu stared at Zhang Xingjian. Her eyes gleamed dark and bright, like flickering flame in a snowy night, shadows dancing within them.

Yang Su stood five paces behind Shen Qingwu.

Moonlight fell across the scene, Shen Qingwu’s eyes fixed on Zhang Xingjian as she said, word by word: “Yang Su.”

Behind her, Yang Su responded, startled.

Shen Qingwu spoke to Yang Su, but her eyes never left Zhang Xingjian: “Sooner or later, I’ll be the death of you.”

Yang Su’s expression shifted slightly.

Something flickered across Zhang Xingjian’s brow.

Behind Zhang Xingjian, the tent flap parted, and Bo Rong, draped in a crane-feather cloak, pushed open the tent door, looking out at the young man standing in the moonlight, and at Shen Qingwu, locked in a stare with him.

In the distance, shadowy figures moved amid singing and dancing, full of festive spirit. Close by, shadows flickered in the dim light, hearts tangled in complicated feelings. What a strange scene this was—

Why was it that Shen Qingwu, speaking Yang Su’s name, seemed instead to be threatening Zhang Xingjian?